The Lines We Draw
by tersaseda
Summary: Just one night, that's all either of them had wanted. Except that when Emma Swan, senior in college and a promising young artist, unexpectedly runs into him again (him being Killian Jones, not that either knew the other's name), they're both left realizing that it isn't just a one time thing. It's something that will make them reconsider everything. [CS AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

"I normally don't—do things—like this."

She hates the way her voice trembles betraying how good it feels, this, the soft press of his mattress against her back and the heat, pure heat, that is his hands on her hips, fingers flexing over her curves, and his mouth hot and insistent against her neck.

"I'm happy to be the exception, love," he murmurs as one of his hands slides up and cups the nape of her neck. She knows what he wants—because she wants it, too—and as soon as she tilts her head to the side, he takes full advantage of her exposed skin with a languid, open-mouthed kiss. And closer, more, his mouth on her neck feels amazing, but she just needs _more_.

As if his thoughts are exactly her own, he sits up and in an endearingly uncoordinated move, pulls his shirt over his head, shaking his arm a couple of times in his haste to get the sleeve off. Her fingers move quickly over the buttons on hers, and soon her shirt is lying in a heap somewhere on the floor, too, and she's raised up a bit, awkwardly trying to unclasp her bra with her arms restricted in their reach and the damn thing won't come undone and it's hard at this angle and when she's shaking so much and—

He chuckles, his arms circling around her. Seconds later, her bra joins their shirts.

"What's so funny?" she asks, starting on getting rid of his pants, too.

He's returning the favor. "Let it never be said I didn't come to the aid of a damsel in distress."

She'd roll her eyes, but they're both so tangled up, jeans stuck on feet, feet battling socks, that the last thing she really wants to think about is how cheesy that was or how his accent made it sound sexy anyways. She just needs to feel him, wants to enjoy one night of recklessness with this incredibly hot guy she picked up at a bar, wants to know that at least one person wants her, even if all either of them can commit to is this one night.

No sob stories, no sentimental of-all-the-gin-joints talk, no names.

Just tonight.

Only her buying him a drink, him reciprocating, a smirk over his shoulder on his way to the restroom, her pushing him up against the wall as he comes out, the kindling, the spark, their fumbling exit.

And now, this five alarm fire.

He crushes himself back to her, their hands everywhere, mouths everywhere. It thrills her, her own greediness—it must be the daring of it all (or the alcohol), but even more so, because he can't seem to get enough either.

He trails his way down her torso, goosebumps erupting over her skin in the wake of his kisses and touches. When his breath blooms warm against her thigh, his whispers of "Beautiful"—his palm running over her knee—"So beautiful"—the brush of his cheek against her other thigh—"You should be painted in shades of moonlight and lines of shadow," she can't help it: screw foreplay. Her fingers lace through his hair and give a not-so-gentle tug back up. "Impatient, aren't we?"

"Do you always talk this much, Picasso?" she pants against his mouth, nipping at his lower lip.

A moan. His eyes briefly go wide before they search her face. "Only when it's true."

And her retort surrenders into a gasp as he finally just shuts up and _oh god_.

* * *

_Oh god._

The light. Her head. Ugh, last night.

Hopping up and down on one foot to yank on her last shoe, she tries to be stealthy and not to curse from the throbbing headache. Though, if it's from a hangover or from totally pulling the sneak-out-before-he-wakes-up routine, she can't tell. She's never done a one night stand before, but Mary Margaret's made her watch enough romcoms to know what the guilty party looks like trying to flee the scene without getting caught. And that's exactly how she feels: guilty. Well, and like crawling into a cave.

What was she thinking? Those shots must have hit her harder than she thought. And she certainly didn't mean to sleep here, at this guy's house.

She rubs at her face, trying to take it all in.

She'd actually had a one night stand, slept with a total stranger, waking up an hour before her first class of the new semester, and hell, she's gonna have to figure out where she is and get to class on time. Her—Emma Swan—this is the crazy plot of her life right now.

She tiptoes by him on her way out the door and takes one last look. Arm thrown over his head, his hair deliciously disheveled, he breathes the steady rhythm of deep sleep. The stubble across his jaw is more pronounced in the daylight—a touch of red in it—and there's a swooping feeling in her stomach as she remembers the feel of it against her skin, surprisingly soft but still just…perfect. In fact, everything about him is perfect. His voice, the silkiness of his mouth, and how he seemed to just get what she wanted without her having to say anything.

She wishes she could sketch him.

Wait—_what?_

And that thought—the fact that she wants to give permanence to any of this, to any of him or even the hint that she knows what it's like to see his devouring eyes—were they cobalt? azure?—peer up at her through those lashes…well, that's exactly why she needs to get the hell out of here. Now.

If, on the way home, the thought that last night was the best sex she has ever had—not that, you know, she's been with a lot of guys, just two…and, and now him—makes her blush, she slides farther down in the backseat of the taxi, biting back a small smile.

* * *

"Psst!"

"Not now, Ruby," she hisses as she continues to rummage through her bag, gritting through the pounding in her head just so she can find her phone and put it on silent before class begins. She'd made surprisingly good time, making it back to her apartment and changing, popping some Advil, and getting to school and all, arriving seven minutes early in fact. And now, last night is out of her mind. No more crazy urges like that, no more alluring strangers fitting the tall, dark, and handsome stereotype to a "T." She is all business, here to learn, not provoke the wrath of her professors by having her phone go off in the middle of class; although in all her three years at Columbia, Dr. French has to be one of the least egotistical, I-am-God's-gift-to-teaching personalities she's ever seen, so it would probably be difficult to do in this case. (This is Emma's third class to take from her, she enjoys her teaching that much.)

The chatting around her gets louder as more students trickle in, and Emma knows class will start at any moment now. Another fruitless search through her bag, and the nagging thought tickles the back of her mind that she might have left it…no. No. Certainly not. She attacks the outside pockets, receipts and old gum wrappers falling out and onto the floor—seriously, where did she put the stupid thing?—when a hand reaches over and starts shaking her.

"What, Ruby?" she huffs, whipping her head up and glaring at her best friend and fellow art major.

Uncowed, Ruby just grins back and with a small nod to the front of the room (the two of them prefer sitting in the back…well, Ruby does), says, "_Look._"

And so Emma leans and looks around her easel, complete with pursed lips and an eye roll because Ruby is always being distracted by random things, and if this is just another one of those times, Emma would definitely prefer to just—

Oh.

She freezes.

_Oh._

Dark hair, crazily sexy scruff to match, that lazy smile. Emma feels the blush climb from her neck all the way to her ears. What is he doing here? She panics and jerks back on her stool; but the movement is too hard, too fast, and it sends her bag falling to the floor, the contents spilling out and rolling in all directions. Crap. She hops down and scrambles to pick everything up and is grateful when Ruby helps her.

"What were you looking for in there anyways?" she asks, handing Emma her lip balm.

She snatches it. "My phone," she hisses.

"Where'd you see it last?"

Geez, does she have to talk so loud? "My bag, last night." She peeks to make sure he's nowhere near them and is relieved to see he's glancing at some papers. Maybe if she can get close enough to the floor, he won't see her. Or maybe she can even sink into the tiles and just disappear. But mainly: what the hell is he doing here?

"And you had it at the bar?"

What? Oh. "Yes!" she whispers.

"Had it after Victor and I left?"

"_YES!"_

Ruby makes a pensive sound as they both sit back down on their respective stools, Emma hunching over her bag. "Hmm. I'll call it for you, see if it's somewhere still in that Mary Poppins tote of yours."

Emma is momentarily distracted when he starts walking to a table at the front of the room, clearly getting ready to start talking and everyone is getting quiet and seriously, where is Dr. French? It doesn't even register what her friend just said until—

All the heads in the room turn towards his messenger bag laying propped up against the wall on the left side of the room, the noise coming out of it muffled but still easily recognizable.

Oh god. Is that her ringtone?

"Oh my god! Is that your ringtone?" Well, at least Ruby is whispering now.

Emma meets her friend's shocked expression with one of her own. She lunges for Ruby's phone. "Hang up! Hang up, hang up." Ruby quickly ends the call but snaps her head up and stares at Emma. Then she stares at the guy at the front of the room. Then back at her. A smile tugs at her mouth, slowly widening as Emma sees her connecting the dots, and now it's positively wolfish the way she's smirking. Like a predator ready to pounce.

Emma glances back towards the front where he takes a long look at his bag before facing the class again. Just as he's opening his mouth, Ruby's words fan against her ear, quiet but delighted. "Someone had some fun last night. And I want _details_." She wiggles her eyebrows as she sits back, and all Emma can do is pointedly turn away and face forward. So not the conversation she'd prefer to have today, let alone ever.

That is when their gazes lock across the room, twenty feet apart, and all she can think as his widen with the same surprise that struck her only moments before, is: sapphire.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Huuuuuuuge thanks to gp28 for being my beta. You rock!_

* * *

The beeping. The damn beeping. It's like a jackhammer inside his skull, and it's got to…bloody…_stop_.

His hand fumbles around stupidly in the general direction of the alarm that's blaring into his ear like a foghorn, and when he finds the off button, the silence that follows is a blessed relief and he feels like crying from the beauty of it. Now, if only he hadn't left the curtains open, there wouldn't be all this light in the room. Stupidly reaching again, this time for the other pillow, he finds it and lifts it to cover his face. Just for two minutes, maybe five. Just long enough to get used to the pounding in his head before even attempting to move more than an inch. Then he'll get up. He's got to.

No sooner than the sigh escapes him as he's enveloped again in darkness, a whiff of something flowery hits him.

_Hmm, smells like her hair._

More forceful than a jackhammer, the details of the night before suddenly bombard him, and despite his headache, despite the way his stomach churns, he jolts upright, pillow pulled away and squinting down at the space next to him on the bed.

She isn't there.

Leaning over the side of the bed, he checks the floor for clothes and only seeing his (hell, he threw his sock all the way over there?), he can pretty much figure out that she's long gone, completely ditched him. Doesn't even need to check the bathroom or kitchen or anywhere else in the apartment. Definitely gone.

_What, Jones, were you expecting her stick around so you could make her breakfast?_

He scoffs at the sentimentality of the thought. He hadn't wanted anything more than a warm body last night, and judging by her firm insistence on the no names thing, neither had she. And they'd both gotten what they'd wanted. A couple of times, he recalls, staring at the tangled sheets that are barely covering him up.

But, bloody hell—had he really called her beautiful and said all that other crap? He's an idiot. Not that it wasn't true—she was astonishingly gorgeous. But, seriously, if this is what getting drunk is going to do to him now, he's better off just giving it up altogether.

Looking at the clock, thankfully no longer having to peek through nearly-closed lids, he figures his five minutes are up and that he probably should get in the shower so that he's not late for the first day of class. He kicks himself free of the sheets and is surprised when his foot knocks into something and watches it skid across the floor, coming to rest in a patch of sun. He honestly tries to ignore the little stutter he feels somewhere in his chest—must be part of the hangover, dehydration, something. But, well…this is an interesting development…

—

It's like lead in his bag, weighing him down with its presence as he sways with the motion of the subway car.

Sixty seconds. One minute. He could at least do that, right?

One, two, three, four, five…

In the most embarrassing display of defunct impulse control ever seen in the likes of a grown man, he makes it to ten before he's reached back into his bag and pulls it out. It's her phone—whoever she happens to be, besides the thought that has taken over his mind—and although he hates himself for it, he's been fiddling with the blasted thing far too much for his own good. With a resigned sigh, he presses the home button and the screen lights up. Her smile is dazzling, arm thrown around her friend, and they're somewhere warm and sunny judging by the light and the fact that the only hint of clothing he can see are the strings tied up around their necks. He lets his eyes roam the line of her neck and shoulders, remembering how hard it was to resist burrowing his head there, falling into her…

Hell—he stuffs the phone back in his bag—he doesn't want this. Any of this. She was hot, that's for sure, and last night was something he hadn't had in…well…had he ever had anything like that before? Shaking his head suddenly (and earning a few looks from the people around him), it shouldn't matter anyways. Why does he even care?

…Maybe because she was the first girl to come along since Milah who held his interest for longer than two seconds. Or the fact that she caught him completely off-guard in the bathroom hallway and kissed him even more senseless than the alcohol had already made him. That she'd kept her word that she didn't want anything more than sex and had skipped out in the morning on him…

He takes out the phone again.

Stop it, Jones.

—

"Good morning, Killian."

The cheery greeting makes him smile for the first time that day. Familiar territory and all that. It's the perfect distraction.

"Good morning, Mrs. Blake," he responds, leaning on the counter and slipping easily into the flirting . "You're as lovely as ever."

She nudges the candy jar towards him with a wink. "Heard you were coming back for a while, so I stocked it up with your favorite."

"Ah, Snickers. You remembered." He unwraps one and pops it in his mouth, despite it only being eight in the morning. "But, love," he says around the nougat, "you're ruining me for all the rest of the girls. Who could ever hold a candle to _this_?" He eats another one and almost moans it tastes so good.

"Come to get the syllabi that Dr. French left for you?" she asks, taking the trash from him and throwing it away.

"Yes, I guess I can do that, after I'm done talking to my favorite department secretary."

She waves away his words even though Killian knows she's pleased with the attention. "Oh, go on. Flattery can't get you extra time in the study rooms anymore."

He gives her a wink. "But it _can_ get me more chocolate," he says taking one last piece and walking towards the department lounge.

"And a figure to go with it."

"You'd love me anyways, though."

Her laugh carries into the other room as does her voice when she calls, "Check in her box, she left everything for you there."

He scans the cubbies until he spots the one marked with Dr. French's name. Grabbing the stack of papers, he then walks over to the coffee pot and fills his thermos and adds some creamer. Hopefully the caffeine will help with the lingering headache, now just a dull pounding at his temples since he took some aspirin before he left home. He goes back through the main office, toasting Mrs. Blake with his coffee on his way out. "Cheers!"

He sees her lift her own coffee mug in salute back. "Good luck!"

"Luck?" he scoffs, opening the door and grinning wide. "It's a senior seminar class, and I'm only filling in for three weeks. Shouldn't get in over my head too much in that time."

The door closes behind him as he steps to the side of the hallway and scans the syllabus for the class's room number. Finding it, he heads in that direction, walking down halls he hasn't been in for a couple of years. Funny, when he'd graduated, he never thought he'd come back, least of all to fill in for one of his favorite professors while she recuperated from a holiday in the form of physical therapy for a broken leg. And being a struggling artist did mean a strain on the cash flow, so he'd jumped at the chance when Belle—he still feels awkward calling her that, although she insists—called him and threw him a lifeline he'd be stark raving mad to refuse.

Another turn around a corner brings him to the classroom, a steady flow of students trickling in, yawns loud and the aroma of coffee heavy in the air. He walks to the front and shrugs off his bag, setting his thermos on the table, and picking up one of the syllabi to give it a more thorough read through before going over it with the class. Just what he'd need on the first day: to make an ass of himself. Everything looks exactly how Belle had explained it to him.

A quick glance at the clock shows it's time to start (five extra minutes should be sufficient, right?), but the groggy faces staring back at him make him think otherwise. Oh well. Here goes nothi—

His bag starts playing music and buzzing on the table, and while he's no rocket scientist, he's pretty sure that Dave Grohl's crooning isn't coming from his own phone.

Huh. Maybe he should answer it? Figure out how to get it back to her? He'd been planning on just going back to the bar and handing it over the bartender, no note or anything. But…maybe…

No.

This isn't the time. He's teaching, he's got to be responsible. Why is this even an issue?

He gives himself the mental slap he needs and focuses: introduction, go over the semester, expectations, roll, and done. Might even get some gratitude for the shortened class.

He turns back to the students, some of whom are smirking at him getting caught with his phone going off in the middle of class, and looks for someone who isn't enjoying this, someone like—

_Her._

It can't be. There are thousands of blonde-haired, green-eyed women all over the city. The probability that the one he just happened to have a one night stand with is in the art class he's teaching is so miniscule, it's nearly negligent. But the shock on her face, the tense set of her jaw, is all he needs to know that 'nearly' isn't the same as 'absolutely'.

The classmate next to her leans over and whispers something in her ear, starling her and snapping him out of this crazy daze.

"R-right," he stutters, jerking his focus to the other side of the room, "Good morning. I-I'm sure you're all wondering why Dr. French isn't here today. Well, turns out that she'd decided to go skiing for the first time ever over the break and ended up breaking her leg instead. Bad luck, eh?" He hazards a glance to the back right corner just in time to see her roll her eyes. It makes what he's about to say that much harder, and he purposefully decides to look elsewhere for this next bit. "So…by way of introduction, I'm Killian Jones: college alum, Dr. French's former student, and we've collaborated on a couple of projects over the past couple of years. Guess she deems me competent enough to help shape the brilliant minds of tomorrow."

That earns him a couple of polite chuckles.

"Anyways, I'll pass around the syllabus. Take one, you all know the drill by now. Then, because I'm taking pity on you we'll just do roll and I'll assign your homework, and then we'll call it a morning, aye?"

The general response back is noticeably more enthusiastic now, and it even translates into them grabbing the papers and passing them around in a blur, a minimal amount of questions about the course requirements, and them replying 'here' loud enough that he doesn't have to call any name more than once. There's a nervous knot in his stomach as he reads through the list of names, wondering when the one he says is going to be hers and if something catastrophic will really happen like his sweaty palms are indicating will.

"Nathan Richards?"

"Here."

"Monica Sanchez?"

"Here."

"Emma Swan?"

A pause.

"Here."

And there she is. (The look he gives her in acknowledgement is just the same as the others. At least he hopes so. He's pretty sure.)

"And Kathryn Xia?"

"Here."

He checks off the last name and breathes a sign of relief completely at odds with the task at hand. "Easy enough," he mumbles. Then, in a louder voice, "Okay, so first assignment: next class we'll be discussing the role of the curator, and the place and function of small academic galleries, what it means to get into the business of art in the first place. So, think of some questions and be prepared to discuss all of this." There's a rising din of backpacks zipping and people standing up from their desks. "See you on Wednesday."

He nervously stuffs all the papers back into his bag, wondering not if but _when_ she…Emma…is going to approach him about her phone. There's no way she'll ignore the fact that he has it anymore than either of them can the fact that they are stuck in this situation for at least a month. Bloody hell. If the administration finds out…but surely Emma's not the kind of person to sabotage him?

Then again, how well can you know someone after just one night, most of it _not_ spent in baring the ins-and-outs of their personalities to one another?

"So."

Her voice startles him and he straightens to find her standing a few feet away, the girl who'd been sitting next to her hanging back by the door—a lookout perhaps. The way Emma's arms are crossed sends the message loud and clear that she is as damned uncomfortable about this as he is. But god, she's even more gorgeous than he'd remembered, and despite himself, he finds that he can't keep his eyes off her mouth.

"So," he counters, making his attention go back to her eyes. Not that that helps any.

They stare at each other, all silence and space, and some random part of his brain finds it ironic considering how there had been nothing between them less than twelve hours ago. (Another part of his brain chides him for his misuse of the word 'ironic'.)

"So you have my phone, and I'd like it back."

"Here." He holds it out to her having already started to pull it out before she'd even, well, not asked. Demanded. She hesitates but then steps forward and grabs it at the farthest point away from his fingers as possible. For some insane reason, that rubs him the wrong way, and he tugs the phone—her attached—back towards him until she bumps into the table, less than a pace apart. Her perfume fills the space, and he hates that his lungs reflexively breathe it in like it's air. That her breathing doesn't seem as controlled either appeases him, slightly.

"Don't think I did this on purpose," he whispers, itching to tuck an errant lock of her hair behind her ear and watching for anything—something—in those green depths that had caught his attention in the first place. What he sees is wariness that changes to shock at his words.

"I-I never…I wouldn't—" she stutters.

He sighs as he lets go of the phone and she quickly puts more distance between them. "Sorry, lo—" He stops. "Sorry."

She ducks her head and takes a deep breath before meeting his eyes again. "Last night was just a—"

"A one time thing?"

"Right." She takes a step backwards towards the door, and he thinks he feels most relieved at that. "We're both adults. Surely we can get through these next few weeks until Dr. French gets back, and then we never have to see each other again."

He's quick to agree. "Definitely."

Her smile is tight as she walks the rest of the way to the brunette—Ruby, he randomly recalls. "See you on Wednesday, Mr. Jones."

"Miss Swan."

Hell. Three weeks of this?


	3. Chapter 3

She can't get away from the room fast enough, her poker face quickly crumbling and her thoughts whirling in her head. Her boots thudding on the tiled floor mark the beat of her—once again—fleeing the scene, and the contrast of those two moments (this morning and now) makes her feel foolish for her secret smiles in the backseat of the taxi. God, she's an idiot.

Emma shoves open the door. She winces as the cold gusts hit her face and bare hands, but takes off across the quad, not really sure where to except away. As far away from him.

"Emma, wait! What's going on?" Ruby calls. Emma walks faster. "Seriously," she soon catches up (damn those extra three inches her legs give her) and grabs a hold of her arm, finally pulling her to a stop, "what was that back there?"

Emma glances around. No one is in hearing distance, still she keeps her voice low. "What do you think that was? I met him at the bar last night after you and Victor left, and I slept with him, okay? And now, of course, he's our prof for who knows how long, and he could make my life a living hell. Enough _details_ for you?"

Ruby stares at her, all traces of teasing from earlier gone and an entirely different kind of fierce taking its place. "That's unfair, and you know it. You know if I had any idea what had happened, I wouldn't have made that comment."

Emma jerks on her beanie a tad too hard. "Well how else did you think he ended up with my phone?"

"Honestly? I thought maybe some kind of switched-phones-at-the-coffee-shop scenario went down."

"You watch too many chick flicks. Mary Margaret's rubbing off on you."

"Whatever," Ruby waves her comment away. " Don't change the subject. Besides, it's not like you're known for your wild streak. Give me some credit for my mind actually not going to sex for once."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Neither says anything for a long while, and Emma purposefully studies the buildings on the far side from them, hating that she lashed out, hating herself for being this upset about the one impulsive thing she's done in her adult life. She should know better—on both accounts.

She sighs. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"Duh. But apology accepted unconditionally, you goon." Ruby beams and reaches towards her. "Now c'mon," she says, tugging on her hand. "Neither of us has class for another hour. Let me buy you a hot chocolate from somewhere _warm_ and _inside_."

-x-

"Are you okay though?" Ruby asks quietly a few minutes later once they've shed their coats and backpacks and are nestled on their favorite couch in the on-campus Starbucks, a caramel macchiato and the promised hot chocolate cradled in their thawing fingers. It does wonders for her headache and for the shock.

"Yeah, I think so," Emma admits slowly, testing out the veracity of the statement syllable by syllable. She blows on her drink and watches the ripples from her breath fan across its surface. "It just sucks. I don't want to have to deal with this kind of crap during my last semester of college. Between our senior projects and getting our portfolios squared away and graduating and finding jobs, random cute guy turning out to be a sex god turning out to be my teacher was definitely not in the cards."

"Sex gods hardly ever are."

Emma snorts. "Thanks."

"Anytime. Really, though, it's not like you did anything wrong. Don't forget I've now seen this guy, and if I weren't taken, you can bet your ass he'd be in my sights. He's like something out of a Shakespeare play, plus you know he's good at what he does or else Dr. French would never have asked him to fill in for her. Oh!" Ruby's eyes light up as she pulls her phone out her phone. "Let's google him."

Emma blows on her drink some more while Ruby digs up something worth sharing. She watches the people around them, trying not to watch the screen as Ruby clicks and scrolls like a mad woman, her eyes flicking back and forth as she scans for whatever piques her interest. Not hers, though. She doesn't want to know him anymore than she already does (which is a hell of a lot, but she's trying to rectify that.)

"Found him," Ruby finally trills triumphantly and causing not a few heads to turn in their direction. "Killian Jones, graduated magna cum laude in 2010 from Columbia University…yada, yada…recipient of the Louis Sudler Prize in the Arts, awardee of the Fulbright student grant program, and _holy shit_, Emma! This guy's work is amazing!" She holds the phone out, right in Emma's face.

Reluctantly setting down her drink, she takes it and starts scrolling through the search results. Whatever she had been expecting, it certainly isn't _this_. She feels her eyes nearly bulging out of her head. "Holy shit."

"Yeah. And look at this one—" Ruby taps on the screen to enlarge an image. "—that should look familiar, right?"

"It's hanging up on the third floor of Dodge Hall, right next to—"

"The study rooms."

They stare at each other, mutual expressions of disbelief and awe.

Sighing, Ruby takes her phone back, a furrow marring her brow. "If he's this talented, why is he filling in for Dr. French?"

Emma shrugs before reaching for her mug again. "No clue." She doesn't really want to think about the compelling forces involved in this man's life.

They're quiet for another few minutes while Emma enjoys the last of her drink, swirling the last bit to mix in the syrup that's collected at the bottom, and Ruby scrolls and taps away on her phone, the same quizzical look on her face.

"Drop it, Ruby," she says.

"No, really, Emma. This is weird. Here's this guy with all these awards and whatnot, plowing full steam ahead into real life. There's an article dated about a year after he graduated talking about an exhibit he showed, but then zip. Nothing beyond that. And now he's teaching our class. Don't you think that's weird?"

"Nope. I don't," Emma replies, standing up with the (hopefully) obvious intent to not only get going to class but to also stop this conversation. "Whatever happened with him, it's none of our business, and I don't ever plan on making it my business again."

"Yeah, yeah, Miss Subtle-As-A-Truck, no need to set the record straight. You know I'm on your side." Ruby checks her lipstick and then hops lightly to her feet. "I'm still just curious."

Emma sighs. "You know what they say about curiosity and cats…"

"It's a good thing I'm more of a dog person then."

Chuckling despite herself, Emma waves goodbye and turns left to head to her Renaissance History class as Ruby goes right for a journalism class. For all her talk on not caring, her own mind certainly is buzzing with annoyingly persistent thoughts about what did happen to him, and how someone of his caliber could simply fall off the face of the map, only to show up three years later in the same bar she happened to be in, as eager to agree to casual sex, and then discussing things like how to navigate the waters of being a professional artist and how to run your own studio. But that all pales to the effort it takes to keep her mind from drifting to the seductive words that had poured from his mouth the night before.

Stepping outside to walk to another building, Emma breathes in the sharp winter air and lets it take over, doing the work of clearing the thoughts away. Mind over matter is a mantra she's had to put to use before in her life. Just a few more weeks; then it won't be a chore anymore. Just a few more weeks, and then he'll have disappeared back into whatever life he had going on before today, just like the wisps of her breath dissipating into nothingness in a blink of an eye into the frigid morning.

Gone. And good riddance.

* * *

Wednesday morning—or the Day of Reckoning as Ruby has taken to calling it anytime she gets a chance—arrives. Emma hesitates briefly on the threshold into the classroom, takes a fortifying breath, ignoring him writing something out on the chalkboard, and sits down at her desk. Ruby's wrapping a call to Victor in the hallway, hashing out plans for the weekend. As Emma waits for her laptop to boot up, she glances around her at her other classmates in various stages of alertness. Her eyes happen to skip across him and stop there when she realizes he's looking right at her. The moment teeters on the edge between nothing and something, but he turns back to the chalkboard before it solidifies. Good—he's letting her know he's keeping his side of the bargain. This might actually work.

"Let's start, shall we?" he says after scribbling a few more words and dusting his hands off.

Ruby slides into her desk at that moment. "Talk to me, Goose. Everything okay so far?" she whispers while taking out her own laptop.

"All clear, Maverick," she whispers back.

* * *

The discussion is actually _really_ interesting. Insightful and thought-provoking even, and her fingers are furiously transcribing his questions along with her classmates' comments, and she's trying to add her own commentary in her notes.

"Miss Swan, what do you think about a curator's emerging responsibilities in the area of digital data objects?"

Her hands still. It was going to happen at some point, her participating directly with him in class, and like hell she's going to sacrifice her education for this.

Mind over matter.

She clears her throat. "Well," she begins, sitting up straighter, "it's a more common preservation technique in places like libraries and museums, but it's picking up steam in other areas as more and more interaction with art in general takes place on the internet, as more refined software is developed to meet the needs of art preservation and cataloguing, and as artists and curators use social media to display their art."

He leans back against the front table, arms crossed over his chest. "So do you feel there's a legitimate place for it? Should curators shift their role, redefine what they do, to incorporate it?"

"It's not the traditional approach to archiving, but any curator in the 21st century should at least be aware of it because it's where society is headed."

"Hmm. So art imitating life for once?" Something flashes in his eyes just before he turns his attention to a guy in the front row. "And, Mr. Corbin? Do you share the same thoughts about digital data's place in the curator world?"

Emma lets out a breath as she tries to keep up with the following discussion. He's taking her seriously, and while it's nothing less than what a professor should accord his students, she feels it an exceptional feat for her. She sinks back behind her computer screen just as Ruby nudges at her with her foot.

_You're gonna be fine_, it seems to say.

And for the first time all week, Emma believes it.

* * *

In what has become his Friday night routine, Killian collapses onto the couch, glass of rum in hand and the music up as loud as his neighbors will suffer without banging on the walls. The burn down his throat is soothing, warming him from the inside out even as it loosens his thoughts and allows a flicker of the past to flash through them. Despite how the pain has softened over the years and how the bottle of rum doesn't get quite so empty anymore on these kinds of nights, he finds himself rubbing over the jagged scar on his left wrist and thinking of bright blue eyes sparkling with laughter that then suddenly, in the most clear cut visual of life and death, weren't.

Another swallow.

This is not what he wants to dwell on tonight. She…Milah…has been on his mind often enough this past week. Tonight he just needs some alcohol and INXS in celebration of surviving the first week of class.

And Emma.

* * *

A/N: Things will pick up, I promise. There are lots of pieces of the puzzle to start weaving.


End file.
